


Second Chances

by LavedaVida



Series: Mélange [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, talk of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:56:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavedaVida/pseuds/LavedaVida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire doesn't want to talk about his past. Enjolras insists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chances

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"You’ve been coming to meetings for weeks, yet you barely say a thing. You brought Eponine, you’ll talk about her, but you still don’t talk about yourself."

"I don’t want to."

”I just want to help you. It’s my job.”

"Good to know I’m just an obligation."

"Damn it Grantaire, you’re not worthless. We all talk about our problems here. That’s what this group is for! Les Amis de l’ABC— the friends of the ABCs of recovery and all that. I want to help you. I want to.”

"I don’t need help, Apollo."

"Eponine says otherwise," Enjolras said. His voice was soft. Grantaire’s head whipped upwards, away from the table that he had been drumming his fingers on.

"What did she say?"

"That you’ve been avoiding her. That the only time you really talk to her is in drunken texts. That you showed up at her door in tears, terrified that ‘he’ was behind you, and that ‘he’ would find you."

"Eponine talks too much," growled Grantaire, kicking his foot angrily against the floor.

"She worries about you. We all do."

"You shouldn’t. I’m worthless. Whatever I feel, it doesn’t matter."

Enjolras gaped at him, and then shook his head. “Don’t act like I don’t know what it feels like, Grantaire,” he spat. His eyes were flaming with anger, and his voice was shaking. “Don’t you dare.”

"Do you know what it’s like to have your family hurl insults at you until you’re sobbing on the bathroom floor? What it’s like to see your father coming at you, to have to cover up the bruises with makeup in the school bathroom and hope that nobody notices? What it feels like to feel trapped in your own home, simply because of a fact that you were born with? What it’s like to hide your report cards, to tremble at the thought of your parents getting home early?"

"Yes," Enjolras said, softly. "Not with— nothing physical. Not for me. But I know— I know what it’s like, Grantaire. Don’t you dare act like I don’t. Why did you think I found Cosette and created this group, if I hadn’t?"

Grantaire looked away. “Fuck. I’m not— I’m not used to having friends who’re used to this kind of thing. I uh,” he rubbed the back of his neck, still not looking at Enjolras. “I’m used to being on my own.”

"You’re not, anymore," Enjolras whispered. "You’re not. We’re here. I don’t know why you think you’re a burden to us, R."

"Maybe because before I came to this school, Eponine was the first person to ever seem interested in my company?"

"That’s not true."

"It is."

Enjolras stayed silent, his expression dark. Finally, he spoke again. “You can talk to us, R. I know that we haven’t always gotten along in the past, but you’re part of Les Amis. It has never been my goal to drive you away.”

"I’ve been in your group for months, yet you hardly even look at me. If I want to know so much as when the next meeting is, I have to search you out. Why did you come to me? Why?"

"Eponine asked me to," Enjolras said. "She wants you to get better, R. We can all see it. It’s weighing on you."

"What are you now, my therapist?"

"I’m your friend."

R stood, pushing the chair back away from the table. He grabbed the cup of coffee of the table, and shook his head. “I’m not your friend, Enjolras. I’m one of your causes. And I won’t be that. I won’t.”

Enjolras watched the other man leave, his mouth gaping. “R—” he started to say, but it was too late. The brunette was gone.

~~~

"What do you mean you ran off?” Eponine asked, glaring at her friend. “I went to Enjolras, I told him that I was worried about you, he finally searched you out and asked you what was wrong, and you ran off?”

"I don’t want to be one of his causes, ‘Ponine," R said, tiredly.

"One of his— one of his causes? You’re an idiot, did you know that? Did it ever occur to you that maybe, just maybe, Enjolras is invested in your well being because, oh, I don’t know, he’s your friend?”

"We both know that I don’t really ‘do’ friends, ‘Ponine."

"Who am I, then? Or Jehan? Or Joly and Bossuet?"

"I don’t know, Eponine!" he shouted. "I don’t know. I don’t— I’m not the kind of person people want to be friends with. I don’t know why you’re here."

"Maybe it’s because we care about you, asshole," Eponine snapped. "If you’re so convinced that nobody likes you, that you’ll just become a cause… I don’t know what to say to you. Get your head out of your ass, talk to Enjolras, whatever. I don’t know what to say to you right now. But for the record, R? You’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Oh. And fuck you." 

Eponine stormed from the room, leaving Grantaire leaning against the wall of his dorm, staring after her. He didn’t know what to say. Her words pinged around his head, until finally, with tired limbs, he stood and grabbed the bottle of wine from the top shelf of his bookcase. With a sigh, he folded himself into the tiny windowsill, and watched the students pass below. He took a swig from the bottle of wine, leaning his head back against the wall, and watching as night fell across campus.

~~~

"Do you want to talk about it?" Combeferre asked, glancing over at where Enjolras was furiously scribbling something onto a pad of paper.

"I am talking about it. Silently. On paper."

"I meant with me," sighed Combeferre.

"It’s just— he’s so difficult, Ferre. I tried to help him, and he ran off. Eponine tried to help him, and he hurt her feelings so badly that she refused to leave Cosette’s couch for six hours. He just— it’s like he doesn’t want help.”

"He did grow up on the streets," Combeferre pointed out, tiredly. "He probably doesn’t want to look weak."

"You could just make Bahorel knock on his door until he opens it, and then have him shout ‘IT’S NOT PUNK TO REFUSE HELP!’" suggested Courfeyrac, from the spinning chair in the corner.

"Thought that is one suggestion, I think it would be better if perhaps you found some way to convince him that you think he matters," Combeferre said, quietly. "He’s spent the last five years trying to look tough and hold his own, refusing help from practically everyone. Perhaps just showing him that he’s wanted would help him."

"He’ll just think I’m making him a cause again," mumbled Enjolras. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Maybe. But maybe if you do your best to be sincere, he’ll get the message," said Combeferre, with a shrug.

"By doing what?"

"By doing what you do best," Combeferre said, simply. "Talk to him. Convince him."

~~~

"Can you take this paperwork down to the Amis lounge, R? It’s the least you can do, after yelling at me the other day. It should be empty, so if you could just put it in Cosette’s folder, that would be great. You know, the one in the green filing cabinet, second drawer from the top?"

R accepted the paperwork from Eponine, and nodded. “Sorry for yelling at you,” he said.

"Just take my paperwork for me, would you?" Eponine said, affectionately. "I have to run to class." She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and hurried out of the dining hall. 

R shouldered his messenger bag, and left the dining hall, heading down the stairs toward where the Amis lounge was located. He pushed open the door, and was halfway to the filing cabinet, when he heard the voice.

"Hello, R."

Grantaire whirled around to see Enjolras perched on top of a desk in one corner. 

"Hi," he muttered, not meeting Enjolras’ gaze.

"I know that you think that you’re not important to the group," Enjolras began. "But you’re wrong. Because every member of this group, from Cosette and Eponine to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, they’re important to me. It doesn’t matter if I’ve known you for a few days or many years, but as soon as you enter this room, it means that you’re someone I care about, because I get where you’re coming from.

"I didn’t know how to say this to you. But you’re not one of my causes, Grantaire. You’re my friend. Plain and simple, you’ve been someone I cared about as soon as you attended a meeting. And it might not seem like I care about you, and I’m sorry for that. I have a kind of brusque manner, and sometimes that makes people think that I’m not genuine, but the truth of the matter is that I have no biological family to care about anymore, and Les Amis have become my family. And if one of you are hurting, then I am hurting because I want to help you. And it hurts when you act as though I don’t care."

Grantaire stood stock-still in the center of the room, the files in his hand forgotten. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again, staring at the floor. “It’s fine if you don’t say anything now,” Enjolras said, finally. “I just wanted to let you know that I care about you more than you might think. As business-like as I can be, my friends are my family. And while I care about my causes, I care about my family too.”

"Thank you," Grantaire whispered. He turned to the filing cabinet, slipped the file in, and left the room, leaving Enjolras still sitting on the desk, watching him go.

~~~

"I’m not good at talking about this kind of stuff."

"It’s okay."

"I was seven, when it started. It was all emotional abuse then, just a lot of yelling and blaming things on me. And then it stayed that way for five years, and it sucked but it was bearable, until I was twelve and I uh. I came out to them. Because I thought, y’know, they’re my parents. And I didn’t really understand that what they had been doing was um— that it was abuse. And when I came out, that’s when the um. The beatings started. And I spent two more years there, until eventually I just had to get out. Because I was scared for my life, and I wasn’t going to let myself get put in the system because I mean— I was an abused gay kid. And an abused gay kid in the foster system is just a recipe for disaster, so I just… set out on my own. And for the first few weeks it was rough because I still had a broken nose and two black eyes and bruises— anyway. It wasn’t good."

"And when do these memories surface? How often?"

"Oh Apollo," R said, with a sad shake of his head. "They’re always there. Running beneath the surface. Why do you think I drink? It’s one of the only things that helps to banish them. But… well, it doesn’t always work. Sometimes it just makes them stronger."

Enjolras bit his lip. “And have you talked to anyone about this? A professional? I may help run the group, but I’m hardly a professional therapist. You should get help, Grantaire.”

Grantaire stayed quiet, refusing to look at Enjolras.

"Thank you for talking to me," Enjolras said, finally. He didn’t want to push the matter, not now, not while Grantaire was there and had finally confided in him. He reached out, and took one of Grantaire’s hands in his own. The feeling of electricity raced up Grantaire’s arm, but by now it was so familiar that Grantaire ignored it. "Thank you for telling me about— it."

R nodded, his gaze fixed on their linked hands. “‘Course,” he said, quietly.

They stayed that way, Enjolras holding Grantaire’s and in his own, a silence stretching between them that was, for once, not filled with tension. It was Enjolras who broke the silence, telling Grantaire about his most recent petition to the school about LGBTQ* abuse survivors, like themselves. They argued, snapped back and forth, their words and opinions clashing.

Their hands did not separate the entire time.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://www.the-strangest-sea.tumblr.com)


End file.
